


This Is Not A Love Story

by Areiton



Series: A Mix of Cockles [11]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, EXCEPT WHEN IT IS, M/M, Misha in denial, Not a Love Story, Polyamory, Thinking, everyone knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: This is not a love story. They have those. This? This is different.





	

Ours is not a love story.

This. Us. It’s _not_ a love story. I have one of those—so does he. Love stories that are bright and brilliant because they aren’t epic.

Everyone _wants_ epic. They want the love that will define and change, reshape a person into something different, something _complete_.

I think it’s often forgotten that something like that doesn’t just make you better. It destroys you in the process. And sure, it’s epic and it’s wonderful and the end is something to write stories about.

But there’s something to be said for the quiet love stories. The women who are steady and supportive, who chase their dreams while they give you the space and faith to chase your own. I had that, long before I knew Jensen.

He had it too.

The women who loved us were our love stories.

But what we shared.

It wasn’t.

It’s not a love story, no matter what my wife might say and what Danneel might laugh about. No matter what the fans say, and god knows they’re smarter than any of us want to give them credit for.

What we have is different.

I lean into him as the day ends, as the sun sets. Our children are playing and our wives are laughing and tomorrow we’ll go back to real life, to our jobs and our lives that are so twisted around each other, its hard to separate them.

We’ll go back to the story that isn’t a love story, but that is _our_ story, and maybe it’s more beautiful, more poignant and perfect because it’s not a love story.

We’ll go back to laughter and pranks and sly glances traded over the grinning head of our best friend. We’ll go back to texts when we’re apart, and the work it takes to stay close despite the miles, the phone calls that juggle schedules and time zones, screaming children and impatient agents.

We’ll go back to being him and me and not _us_.

But tonight—tonight, sitting at his side is where I belong, listening to our families is what feels right, his lips pressed against my temple, his breath smelling faintly of beer and the weed we smoked when the kids were napping. The smaller, slighter bulk of him tucked against me and the warm press of his hand on the inside curve of my thigh, a tease and a promise—it all adds up to the story that is _us_.

Later, the girls will fall asleep in our separate bedrooms, and the kids will pass out somewhere between them, tangled together with a cartoon flickering because his little girl hates the dark, and that _has_ to be something he gave her.

And he’ll meet me in the moonlight, kiss me senseless and leave me gasping, work me open and fill me until I forget where we end. Where we are separate, and not _us._

He’ll meet me in the places where we are separate and same, and he will whisper the words of our story, the one that isn’t a love story, the words I live for, the words that are _mine_ and _forever_ and _sweetheart_ and _don’t let go._

He’ll pant them in my ear while he thrusts into me, paint them into my skin with lips and tongue and teeth, until I’m covered in his body, and my come, in his words and our love, in _us._

Until I forget that we aren’t a love story. That I don’t want to be. Until he laughs at me, draws me close to him, and kisses away my thoughts, murmurs _stop thinking_ and holds me in the gentle cage of his arms on the couch while I fall asleep against his chest.

We’ll wake up there, roused by our children who have stopped being surprised to see us like this, tangled together.

Maybe because they are tangled together, they think it’s normal for us to be. Maybe because our lives are, it _is_ normal.

I don’t know.

All I know is that we aren’t a love story. We never have been. But whatever we are, when he holds me, when his lips are warm pressure against my skin, when his voice soothes over the distance and my worries and his laughter teases me into joining him in amusement, when his green eyes smile bright and wordless and full of that thing I refuse to admit that we are—I don’t really care **_what_** we are.

I only know that I’m glad we are _us._


End file.
